The Cook Off
by KatZen
Summary: Nothing, absolutely nothing, gets between a Tracy man and his food. Not even a disaster. A Scott and Gordon story.


**Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the property of their respective owners. No money is made from this. The OCs, I'd like to lay claim to, but I'd doubt that they (or their real-life counterparts) would appreciate me treating them like possessions. However, they are a product of mixing my reality with my imagination and smushing the result into this universe, and consequently, do belong to me. **

**AN: For those that enjoy knowing the chronology of a storyline, this is set somewhere after 'We Know Not' and before 'A String of Miracles'. It does feature some OCs (briefly), but could be read as a stand-alone, I guess. **

**Inspired after a day in the kitchen… alas, one Tracy boy and I were just never meant to be domesticated!**

The Cook-Off

It's my fault, but to my dying day, I'll swear I wasn't the one who started it. John started it; he should be held accountable for this. Looking around at the kitchen, which is smouldering, but not engulfed in angry flames anymore, I can see that I'll be arguing the case for a very long time.

Beside me, I can feel Scott shake with laughter as he tries to wipe the most irritating smirk off his face. His eyes are alight with happiness, even though they are red and watery, something that's become more common to him over the past four years since he married. The happiness, not the watery eyes part.

I don't think he's quite realised that no kitchen means no food. No food means no freshly baked apple pie. No apple pie will mean his unborn son will be unhappy. Unhappy baby makes for an unhappy mommy. And unhappy mommy leads to an unhappy Scotty. He'll have my guts for garters when he figures that out.

"Shut. Up." I bite the words out, the tips of my ears as red as my hair, but secretly, I delight in the fact that my mishap has made him so happy. He'll suffer soon enough. I'll let him have this moment. The calm before the storm.

One day, in about fifty years, we'll look back on this and laugh. It's a pity my father, Grams or Kyrano, won't see it that way immediately, once they realise the kitchen is a complete and utter write-off.

Scott holds out his hands, charred from helping me fight fire, blackened with soot. "Cough up," he says, smirk widening more. It's like rubbing salt on a wound, payback for my earlier remarks. I sigh mournfully, feel into my back pocket and pull out two hundred dollar bills. I slap them into his outstretched hand; scowl up as I depreciate in value.

He nods his thanks, slips my – his – money into his wallet, turns and walks away. No doubt about it; he's going to collect on the rest of his winnings. "Easiest money I've ever made for my retirement fund. Just remember, Gordy, never bet on anything that isn't a sure thing."

"Then I wouldn't have any fun in Vegas," I call out to his retreating back. He waves his hand in response.

I glance around at what's left of the kitchen again, realise belatedly that I'm the only one standing in the vicinity, surrounded by debris. The sneaky sod has just left me to clean it all up, while he gets away with it, scot-free!

Err, no bad pun intended there. Honest.

* * *

><p>It starts off like any other morning. Virgil wolfs down his cereal like there was no tomorrow. Living in the same room as Scott as a child, he's learnt that if he doesn't eat fast, he doesn't eat. Otherwise the Human Dyson would suck everything up, Virgil's hunger be damned. His wife, Gus, sits beside him. Unable to witness his horrible eating habits, she talks to Dad about the plans for a small block of flats on the island. It was meant to expand on the living space, as the villa was becoming too crowded for everyone's liking.<p>

John has his head buried in his latest manuscript, pencil tucked precariously behind his left ear. He reads a line, frowns and re-reads it, before pulling the pencil down and scratching it out. I peer surreptitiously over his shoulder, wondering what was wrong with the line he had written. John snarls, slams the paper bundle shut. For the calmest Tracy of the lot, he's surprisingly moody if he doesn't have his caffeine and chocolate fix in the morning. I shove a bowl of Count Chocula under his nose and drown it in milk for him. He moans because I haven't placed his bowl in the nuclear cooker to take the chill off the milk.

Tin-Tin walks in next, with her and Alan's three year old son tucked under her arm. I rescue Leroy, placed him in a chair that reserved specially for him.

"Count Chocula or Shredded Wheat?" I ask the three year old.

Tin-Tin makes up his mind for him. "No unhealthy food for my son, Gordon. It will rot his teeth."

The Shredded Wheat gets placed in front of the three year old towhead, who pouts just like Alan. The father has obviously been training the son in the art of perfecting The Pout. Now, Alan has to teach him Sulky Pout, Irritated Pout, I'm-the-youngest-and-I-didn't-get-what-I-want Pout, Happy Pout and Everyday Pout. I don't envy the three year old, though; his breakfast must taste like reconstituted cardboard.

As Tin-Tin sits down, Scott walks in, holding each hand with his two children. His three year old daughter breaks free and struggles to scramble up into the chair she has claimed as her own. Luckily for her, Uncle Gordy, her favoured uncle, is ready to come to her aid. Scott's almost two year old son clamours for a banana from the fruit bowl in the centre of the table. From behind Scott, I spy his wife, seven months pregnant, waddling up to the table before huffing her way onto a chair.

"Dare I ask, Tash?" I butter a slice of bread and fold it in two before cramming it into my mouth.

"Gordon, don't ever treat a woman the way your brother treats me. You'll be a better man for it," she sighs, long suffering, hands over her belly as if she could shield her child from her words. "You see, my husband, the man who I _thought_ would love me unconditionally, said the worst possible thing to me, while I nurture, carry and grow his son. And it's quite distressing to be on the receiving end of such a comment."

"Oh yeah?" I really want to know how Scott, the image of perfection, had managed to screw up.

"He called me fat," she snarls out, her corrosiveness rivalling battery acid.

"I didn't call you fat," Scott mumbles, dragging a hand over his face. Times like this, I thank my lucky stars I'm not married. I prefer having a girl, or guy, in every port; I don't discriminate that way.

"Just heavier."

_Strike one_.

"I meant rounded. More of you to love," Scott amends, realising his faux pas.

_Strike two._

"You're like Thunderbird Two," he begins, in a vain attempt to pay his auburn haired spouse a compliment. If he weren't already sitting down, Virgil would collapse in horror at the statement. Potshots at his favoured Bird were below the belt.

_Strike three. Batter out! Back away slowly and let someone else take over._

"So, not only am I fat, but you also think I resemble a flying watermelon on steroids. Gee, Scott, thanks a lot. You really know how to make someone feel better." She grabs the nearest dining utensil. It's a kid-safe plastic knife. Ever since his grandchildren have become more inquisitive around the villa, the old man insists that all sharp objects are kept well out of their reach, just as a precaution.

"You know, Scott, you're lucky this is a plastic knife. If it were metal, I would personally make sure you wouldn't be in a position to father any more kids. Know what I'm saying?" She wields her weapon of choice in a threatening manner. Scott gulps, backs away in horror, and crosses his legs as he sits as far away as possible from her. I think we all get the message, loud and clear.

The conversation turns after that little spat. I keep half an eye, well, ear on it, drifting in and out of it as I see fit.

The conversation stills. I tune in. "Huh?"

"I was just saying, it's been a while since you boys have attempted to make a meal."

"There's a good reason for that, Dad," John chortles, super perky now he's on his chocolate high. "Attempt is the key word. Virg, Alan and I could probably hold our own. It's Scott and Gordon you need to worry about."

I feel the ire rise up in me. I've been known to crack open a few cans of Spaghetti O's and eat them cold from time to time. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Come off it, Gords," Virgil laughs. "You'd think a calendar was a mysterious, bottomless bowl."

"Colander, actually," Scott corrects, stunning us all. He shrugs. "What? Just because I don't cook, it doesn't mean I can't."

And that sends the table into hysterics. All except Dad. He just smiles wistfully. It takes me a good five minutes to calm myself down. It's one of the funniest jokes I've heard in months. "Okay, Scott, if you think you can do better than me, we'll have a cook-off," I challenge, appealing to his competitive side. There's no way he can turn me down. The Tracy pride is at stake.

"Fine," he replies coolly, drinking some apple juice. "Just name the date and the place, and I'll be there."

"How about today afternoon in the kitchen? We'll be the ones making dinner today." I suggest the afternoon because I have to refit Thunderbird Four with new boosters. I know Scott will prefer the afternoon too, because he and Tash have an ultrasound appointment mid-morning. International Rescue work and spousal/baby health takes precedence over potential money making schemes.

"Fine," he repeats, with no sign of stress. In fact, he buffs his half bitten fingernails on his t-shirt, unfazed.

"Care to make it interesting?" I ask. I dangle some money in front of his eyes, a carrot in front of a horse.

Scott's eyes flick up briefly, noticing the denomination. "For that chump change?" he scoffs. "Forget it. But increase it tenfold and you've got yourself a deal."

"Two hundred bucks, Scotty? Are you sure you can afford to lose that much?" I tease. Of course the man can afford to lose it. He, like Johnny, was a self-made millionaire by the time he hit the legal drinking age. Buying into blue-chip stocks turned out to be a good investment for both of them.

He cocks an eyebrow. "Can you?"

I toss my money down on the centre of the table. It's just my luck that Grams enters the room, carrying two pancake plates and setting them down in front of Gus and Tin-Tin, at that precise moment.

"Gordon! Put that away!" she scolds, making me feel like I'm fifteen again, caught with my hand in the cookie jar. "You know I don't like you betting against each other."

"Oh, Grams," I laugh airily. "This isn't gambling; this is the beginning of my retirement fund. Easiest money I'll ever make."

Grams rolls her eyes disapprovingly and moves away to bring in more pancakes. I eyeball my other siblings. "Are you in? And who are you siding with?"

Virgil and John both chuck their money into the pile, on top of my notes. "We're gonna have to side with you, Gords," John volunteers. "Just based on past experience."

_Sweet! Even my brothers believe in me._

Scott rolls his eyes heavenward. "O, ye of little faith," he mutters, as he tosses his entrance fee onto the pile.

Had I seen the wily smile on Dad's face at the time, I think I would have held onto my money.

* * *

><p>The refit doesn't take me quite as long as I thought it would. Between you and me, I spend my spare time brushing up on my cooking skills, because I can't be sure that Scott's not on his SmartPad at the hospital, watching the ever popular Cooking-for-Dummies webisodes. By brushing up, I mean running into the pantry and panicking because we're out of canned food that could be served after nuking it up in the cooker. Also, I note we don't have a can opener.<p>

_Plan one out of the window, then._

I struggle to remember the dietary requirements for my family. The Tracys – the born ones, not ones by marriage – are incredibly fussy eaters. Dad likes meat. Lots and lots of it. Beef, lamb, veal, it doesn't matter. Just as long as it used to be living issue of another animal. If there's no meat in the meal, he walks around like a bear with a sore head for days on end. Scott, for some bizarre reason, refuses to touch anything that tastes or resembles tomatoes. I don't know why, but I know this doesn't stop him from eating pizza or drowning his hot dogs in ketchup. John, unlike the old man, becomes grumpy if there's no fresh vegetables on his plate. For a sugar junkie, I find his penchant for fresh veg out of place. Virgil, like I mentioned before, eats like there's no tomorrow. Sometimes I wonder if he tastes half the things he eats, or if he's eating because he's bored. He has a very unhealthy relationship with food. And as for me, I like salty foods. It reminds me of the ocean. Anything sweet upsets my stomach. Alan is by far the worst of us all, but since he's been relegated to Space Monitor Duty this month I don't have to worry about it.

"Gords, let's go."

I follow big brother of mine into the kitchen. I feel like I'm walking to my own execution.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Scott?" I stall, playing for time. "No one will think worse of you if you change your mind."

Scott turns, flashes his laser beam eyes at me. "Second thoughts, Gordon?"

I shake my head.

"Good, because we had a deal. You signed the contract, remember? Wouldn't want to break that, would you?" Scott's tone is light, but I'm perceptive enough to detect the dark undercurrent of a threat.

It was true. I had signed the contract that Scott had drawn up before he left, stipulating the rules for the cook-off. The rules dictated that neither party would be allowed to ask for help from Grams, Kyrano, or other independent parties while they constructed an appetiser, main meal and dessert that would satisfy the entire family. It would be a blind test, meaning that the judges wouldn't know who cooked what, resulting in fair and impartial outcomes. Should a rescue call come in, the cook-off would be moved to another day. There were at least fifteen more pages to the contract, but I didn't bother reading them. It was just too boring, and I had enough faith in Scott to know he wouldn't try to short change me.

"You don't trust me?" I had asked, injecting hurt into my voice when he presented the contract to me so I could sign it.

"I trust you," he had replied. "I just know what lows you'd stoop to, to win."

Unfortunately, that snide comment had grounding. But, hey, I was seven when I cheated in Monopoly and demolished Scott's hotels on Boardwalk. I didn't understand the concept of fair play. I wanted to win.

"It was over two decades ago, Scott," I muttered, irritated he brought it up, as I scrawled my name on a semi-read document. "Get over it."

And that document is cemented to the fridge with heavy duty magnets, a constant reminder that I'm honour bound to carry on in this competition. Seeing how serious Scott is, I'm really starting to regret this. He must have some secret weapon I don't know about.

"Scott, we can't do this." I've finally thought of a plausible reason.

"Pulling out already?" Scott asks, corners of his mouth twitching up.

"Like you've never pulled out of anything before," I snipe, before the filter that functions between my brain and my mouth kicks into action to censor my thoughts.

Scott takes my comment entirely the wrong way, deliberately reading into the double-entendre. "Actually, I haven't. I know and use better methods of protection," he says, not realising that there are some things I _never_ need, or want, to know. We've strayed into fraternal awkward territory. I'm unaware of how to proceed from this point, so Scott does it for me.

He holds out his hand, an act of good sportsmanship. "May the best man win, Gordy."

"Thank you, Scott," I grin, shaking his hand. "But we still can't do this."

He pulls his hand out of my grip. "Why, pray tell, can't we do this?"

"Think of the food wastage. I mean, I know we're a family of fourteen, but we're both cooking for fourteen people. We'll end up making twice as much food." I'm astounded that my math skills are accurate with this. I've never really liked math.

"YMCA," Scott smiles in response, saccharine tone. "Problem solved."

I fail to see how the YMCA could help us. The dance doesn't expend as much energy as people think. In fact, it just makes you thirsty, and sweat like a water buffalo on a hot day.

"Yesterday's meal cooked again," Scott explains at my quirked eyebrows. "If there's too much food, it'll go back in the fridge as snacks or another meal."

Dammit. He really has thought of everything.

"Alright," I sigh, resigning myself to my fate. "Let's do this."

* * *

><p>Half an hour, or maybe an hour later, and I still don't know what I'm going to do. I think – not that I can ever let Scott know this – but this time, I think I've bitten off way more than I can chew.<p>

A quick glance beside me. Scott hasn't done much either. This makes me feel better; he doesn't know what to do too. In fact, he just seems to be moving pots, bowls and pans around.

"So," he asks, catching me staring. "What's on your menu?"

Menu? I was meant to have thought of one? My hastily prepared plan of attack was to find anything I could, and throw it into the oven.

"It's a surprise." I evade the question and run to the freezer. I come back with something I know intimately.

Scott quirks one eyebrow to couple his amused smirk. My gut sinks. He knows something I don't know.

"What?" I snap at his grin. "Why're you looking at me like that?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," he rejoins sarcastically. "I didn't realise my moods could prove so distracting to you. Perhaps you'd like me to continue with an enviro-bag on my head so you can't read my facial expressions."

I ponder the thought and nod. Hey, he was the one that suggested it; not me. As a sub thought, I come to the conclusion that I might have him at an advantage if he can't see what he's doing through the thick canvas of the bag.

"Not a chance," he scoffs. "By the way, Nemo, what happened to fish are friends, not food?"

"They'll be my friends and food, if they help me win this," I volley back.

"Okay. Your call. But just remember you have to also feed three kids, so oysters may not be the best option."

"Not for the kids." My mind races at a million miles per hour, as I wonder how to talk my way out of this. "For the adults. Puts you in the mood for lovin', know what I'm saying?" I nudge him in the ribs.

A genuine smile, like he's knowledgeable on the aphrodisiac qualities of seafood. A knowing, mischievous glint in his eye, too, replaying a memory that I hope remains private. Like I said, there are some things that I will _never_ want to know about. "Yeah, I do know what you're saying."

"What about you?" I drink in his meticulously ordered workspace. A rack of ribs defrosting on a platter, and he has several packets of chicken open too. He's attempting to go for the quintessential meat and no veg meal.

"Crispy chicken strips with potatoes, carrots, and cucumber for the kids-"

"No tomatoes?" I interrupt. Scott pulls a disgusted face. He mutters something about not subjecting his offspring to the Devil's Food.

"And for the adults, honey soy glazed barbecue ribs with corn and potatoes. Dessert is marbled chocolate cheesecake with vanilla ice-cream and butterscotch sauce."

Wow. He really has thought through all of this. No wonder he wasn't determined to drop out and leave me as the Supreme Ruler of All Things Kitchen by default.

"And for starters?" I'm almost afraid to hear the answer.

"Pastry pillow puffs." He runs to the freezer and pulls out fourteen sheets of ready-to-bake puff pastry. "Spinach and cheese, five vegetables and ham and apple sauce."

Holy Guacamole! Who is this doppelganger, and what has he done to my domestically inept brother? Damn those Cooking-for-Dummies webisodes. I'm sure that's how he's managed to pull this off. I'm going to be honest, with that much planning; he deserves to win this, if he can pull it off successfully.

There's always the chance he might fail. So, maybe, just maybe, I'm not completely out of the running.

* * *

><p>We work surprisingly well in the kitchen. I spend most of my time gutting and deboning the array of fish and marine life I've found. I remove the ink from the octopi, unsure if anything I've done so far is right. If I'm honest, I haven't done a good job. The fish look like a mass murderer has been hacking away at them, and I've accidently beheaded one of my prawns with what appears to be a cleaver.<p>

Beside me, Scott swears, runs to the sink and lets cold water flow from the faucet. It's the first time he's broken out from the steady and precise rhythm he works in. No matter how hard I try, I can't detract him from his making the marinade and spreading it over the slab of meat before sticking it in the oven, nor can I disturb him with endless chatter from creating the butterscotch sauce and cheesecake.

"What happened?" I ask, stopping my work. Despite appearances, I consider the welfare of my brother far more important than this.

"Nicked myself on the knife," Scott sniffs, removing his finger to see if it's stemmed the flow of blood.

"Do you need a Band-Aid?" This is the sort of thing I can help with.

"Nah." He assesses the wound quickly. "I've got a styptic pencil with my shaving kit, so if you could bring that to me, that'd be brilliant."

I wonder why he'd want a styptic pencil when a Band-Aid could achieve the same job, but I don't question it. Scott's kinda old-school in that sense. He prefers the old-fashioned things to the new ones. He won't even use the electronic shavers I bought him over the years, instead preferring to use the razor blades that were considered old fashioned when Dad was learning to shave. Scott's an odd one, out of all of us.

I rush back with the chalk like stick in my hand, watch on in fascination as he applies the anti-haemorrhage stick over his cut.

"Better?"

"Infinitely." Scott slips the stick into the pocket of his cut-off jeans.

I turn back to my fish. "How'd ya do it?"

"Trimming excess fat off the chicken," he responds. "How else did you think I could do it?"

"Just fry it off," I say, drizzling the prawns in oil and seasoning it with a mountain load of salt. I reach behind me and turn on the grill.

Scott pulls a face at my suggestion. Apparently, frying off fat would make life too easy. And who would willingly _want_ an easy life?

"Frying's bad for your heart," he mutters.

To each their own, I guess. I shake my head, moving to concentrate on what I'm going to fix for three under three year olds. Heading back to the freezer, I rummage around in below freezing temperatures. I pull out a packet of burger buns.

_Fish burgers. What kid doesn't like a burger?_

And the best part of this is that the fish has to be mashed, so my massacre won't be seen. I move my hands, mashing and working the fish flakes together, until it resembles something similar to a patty. Along with the prawns, I slide them onto a tray and place them under the grill. Turning my back to the grill, I start constructing a smorgasbord of fish and crustaceans for the over eighteens.

John strolls into the kitchen at the same time I throw a fish head at the door in frustration. He holds up the SmartPad in his hands like a shield. "Hey! I'm walkin' here!"

I huff, move to dispose of the head on the floor. "What are you doing in here? Get out!"

John gives a perceptive shrug of his shoulders, shaking the SmartPad. "Alan wanted to see how you guys are doing."

From the screen, I can see Alan pout.

"That fish head was three inches away from me!" he complains loudly, conveniently forgetting that he's in space. I point that out to him.

"Well, if I was standing there in real life, it would have been a very close call with my perfectly coiffed hair!" he retorts, pout becoming more pronounced.

"Thus missing your brain by at least five galaxies," Scott snarks, loud enough for me to hear, but quiet enough for Alan to remain deaf to it.

"Who's your money on?" I ask, even though the answer is obvious.

A pointed look.

"Thanks, Al. Vote of confidence means a lot to me."

"No problem," he says airily. "By the way, you may want to check on the grill. Something's on fire in there. Just a heads up."

I wheel around in horror, and sure enough, thick black smoke billows out of the narrow, slit-like opening.

"Scott!" I yelp, voice raising several octaves as I begin to fret. My entire meal is charring to a crisp, and I have no idea how to save it. "Scott! My meal!"

"Screw the meal!" he yells, closing the door to contain the fire and slamming the window shut to starve the fire of oxygen. "I think the kitchen's more important!"

I run around like the proverbial headless chicken, scouring the corners for the fire extinguisher. The fire spreads; to my horror, the kitchen is surprisingly flammable. The flames drop like lava onto the floor, and travel rapidly, consuming everything that lies in its path. Belatedly, I realise that I've trailed oil all over my workspace. I slap myself across the forehead in anger.

From somewhere to the side, Scott coughs, deep and throaty. The smoke thickens even more, shrouding him like a blanket. I begin to feel disorientated from breathing in the noxious fumes of plastic and linoleum melting.

I wonder how Scott's coping.

I wonder why the sky is blue.

I wonder if I'll ever find that damn extinguisher.

I wonder why the Smoke Bunny in the corner is doing the Macarena.

I wonder if this is how I'll get to see Mom again.

An anguished yell from my… left? Right? I don't know. Maybe I'm hallucinating that sound?

Is that even possible?

Nope. Sound's real. I hear it again.

"Scott?" I choke out, swallowing a hacking cough. "You holding up okay?"

I imagine him holding the fire extinguisher heroically, ready to show the flames who's boss. I expect him to win in this war, seasoned veteran that he is. When I find him, after struggling through the smoke, I'm quite surprised.

He's not standing to his full height. Instead, he's doubled over in pain, one hand super-glued over his eyes. I grab his other hand, lead him and struggle to find the door. I figure it's better for us to get out, before we become human steaks that are extremely well done.

"What's wrong?" I prise his hands away from his eyes, call for his wife (the newly graduated doctor) to examine him. They look terrible; raw, angry and bloodshot. Like Scott with a bad hangover combined with smoking two or more packs of cigarettes. Or meet Scott, Satan's Spawn. It's _that_ bad.

"Do you know what that fire extinguisher did? It exploded in my face. I mean, what is the point of a fire extinguisher? It sits there for months, and when you actually have a fire - when you actually need the bloody thing - it blows your head off! " Scott spat out irately, throwing the object he cradled in his arms down on the floor in a temper. I recognise the words and know instantly that Scott's channelling Basil Fawlty from the comedy classic. I saw that particular episode of Fawlty Towers two nights ago on The Classic Comedy Channel.

He aims a vicious kick at the now fallen, and dented, extinguisher and misses, falling over his own feet as he overbalances and crashes to the floor.

"I'll get Brains to look at it," I soothe his frazzled nerves as his wife awkwardly squats to his height. "A safety valve probably broke, damaging it."

He grunts as the auburn haired woman tilts his head up to administer the eye drops. I try to slink away to my room to shower and clean up before the news of the disaster spreads like wildfire.

"Don't take another step, Gordon Tracy!" she orders menacingly. "I just want to make sure that your lung functioning hasn't been diminished from the fire."

Tash forces a tube through my lips and I blow into it obediently, while she places the disc of the stethoscope on various areas of my back and chest. It's cold to the skin, refreshingly cold after being in the searing kitchen.

"Right," she orders using her _I-mean-business _tone. "Down to Sick Bay, the pair of you. I'll use the equipment to determine just how much smoke you've inhaled."

Scott squints at me, abject horror. I imagine his expression mirrors mine.

"Don't you think that's a bit drastic?" he argues through another hacking cough. "It's only a little smoke. Like going to a bonfire and standing within a foot of it."

She turns, flashes green laser beam eyes at us. "Sick Bay. Now!"

Even I have enough sense to know that it is better to follow her orders than disobey them.

* * *

><p>Both of us have suffered from smoke inhalation. No surprises there. I have a few first degree burns, which get treated with camomile lotion and some dressing, while Scott's eyes are examined more thoroughly. The redness and intense watery layer that has formed appears to be a temporary reaction to the chemicals in the fire extinguisher. Brains examines the fire extinguisher, proving my assumption correct. There was a broken valve somewhere, rendering the equipment faulty.<p>

We're held in Sick Bay for two hours, Brains' latest contraption shoved down our throat. He's invented a machine to help clear our lungs of any minute particulates, such as ash, that could have a detrimental effect on our ability to function as International Rescue, should our lung capacity be compromised on a rescue.

I sit there happily, reading the latest _RadioActive Gordon_ comic book on a SmartPad. Scott, conversely, glowers and frets. He mentally tabulates all the tasks and maintenance issues he could be rectifying on his fleet of propeller planes instead of sitting, idle. He swears – or at least, he tries to, the sound is muffled due to the tube that's been fed down his throat to settle deep in his lungs – as the customary handcuffs are slapped on his wrist, and he's chained to the bed, barring him from any escape from Sick Bay.

_Hey, Scotty,_ I scrawl on the SmartPad once I finish reading _RadioActive Gordon_. _Think we'll be out of here in time for dinner?_

Scott stares at me like I've sprouted three heads. _Dinner? Are you freaking nuts?_ He writes back, printing neatly, showing off his ambidextrous skills. One of the perks of being predominantly left-handed, he had told me when I was a teen. It's also one of the few physical features he inherited from Mom.

_No. I'd like some dinner. I'm hungry._

Scott rolls those eyes of his. _Were you even there in the kitchen? Did you see the force of the fire? What makes you think there'll be anything that can be salvaged?_

My watch beeps. Two hours are up, and we're granted a release. I cough and gag as the tube moves up my throat, and end up spewing in a bucket as a side effect.

"Gross," I spit out the remnants of vomit from my mouth. "Absolutely disgusting. I hate throwing up."

I wait as Scott's uncuffed from the bed. He grimaces, rubbing at his wrists, where the handcuffs chafed his skin.

"Time to check out the damage," I say, walking out of the door.

"You mean, time for me to assess how much of my winnings will be spent on fixing up the kitchen," Scott parries back, following me.

"_Your_ winnings?"

"Yes. _My_," he stresses the possessive noun? Verb? Adjective? I really should have paid more attention in grade school English. "Winnings. I wasn't the one that set the kitchen on fire."

Of course. There is no comeback to that. That particular argument trumps all.

* * *

><p>Miraculously, the oven and freezer remains intact. Whatever food was in there is salvageable. Scott and I plate up, and take the meal to the extended dining room table. It consists of my oysters as starters, his ribs and chicken strips for mains and his cheesecake for dessert. I produce ice-cream on the side of his cheesecake. It's fairer that way; we've each served up two dishes. Admittedly, one of my dishes is derived from a tub.<p>

"At least there's food," I offer as a consolation to the twin glares that are emanating from Grams and Dad. Kyrano wears an expression mild disapproval. If he wasn't such a gentle mannered man, I'd imagine he'd be seething.

Virgil and John have trouble stifling their laughter. It's almost like they knew this would happen all along.

"If it makes it better, Dad, you could always think of this as an IR training exercise," I offer. Dad turns the colour of puce.

"How so?" The vein twitches and pulsates at his greying temple. I fail to see the warning signs.

"Well, Scott and I honed in on our skills on working together to achieve a common aim during the incident. We cemented our ability to work as a team."

"At the expense of my kitchen? You could have done that in a simulator!" he roars, shaking violently as he struggles to contain his rage. Scott recognises the signs a damn sight faster than me, shoves his hands in his pockets and scarpers out of the room, whistling the theme tune to _The Great Escape. _

I squirm, noticing Scott has left me out to hang, once again. I'll get him back for this.

"Umm…" I struggle to think of anything intelligent to say, so I don't say anything at all. Instead, I scurry away, following Scott. "Call me when it's safe to come back!"

Scott's reclining on the leather couch in the lounge.

"How'd you do it?" I sigh, accepting defeat. It tastes like Humble Pie. I should probably mention that I hate Humble Pie.

"Do what?" He quirks his eyebrows, and I shoot him a look. "Cook, you mean?"

"Yes. That is what I mean."

"I told you, Gordon; you weren't listening. Just because I don't cook, it doesn't mean I can't."

"Who taught you? Was it those Cooking-for-Dummies webisodes?" I frown. "If it was, you've breached the rules stipulated in The Contract. The honourable thing to do would be to hand the winnings over to the rightful recipient." I hold out my hand, waiting to feel the beginning of my retirement fund.

Scott throws his head back and laughs. "Boy, there is no way I'm giving you my hard earned cash. Yeah, you heard me right; I earned it."

He sobers up, sits up straighter. "I used to cook with Mom."

"You did?" My voice comes out strangled, no louder than a whisper.

"Yeah. Every Sunday afternoon, Dad would take Virg and Johnny out to the park, or down to the music shop, or somewhere, and Mom and I would cook. You would be sitting in your high chair, two year old terror that you were."

"You didn't go with Dad?"

"Nah. Dad had already taken me out to the airfield on Saturday, so it didn't seem fair to impose on John and Virg's time with him. I'd stick with you and Mom. Anyway, while they were gone – a trip with Dad was a guaranteed three hour outing – Mom and I would cook. We'd often do sweets, like cupcakes and caramel slices, but sometimes we'd do savouries, like cheese straws. Then, she'd teach me how to cook dinner."

"And what did I do?"

Scott chuckles, ruffling my hair. "You licked the icing bowl. One time, Mom was making pink cupcakes for a fundraiser, and you decided that you wanted to wear the bowl instead of clean it for us. By the time Mom had wrestled it off you, there was icing everywhere. In your hair, on your eyes, even in your ears."

This does sound like me.

"Mom ended up taking you upstairs to the bathroom to clean you up a bit. We had made a batch of twenty, and by the time you and her came back down, there were only about six left."

I prod him gently in the stomach, aiming for his belly button. "That many cupcakes, huh? No wonder you're so podgy."

"Muscle! It's muscle!" he protests, eyeing me up. "Not that I'd expect you to know about that, you weed."

I let that thinly veiled insult wash over me, water off a duck's back. At least he's stopped calling me Gordo. I don't like being called fat in a foreign language.

"Scott?" I ask tentatively.

"Yeah?"

"D'you… do you think you could tell me more about Mom?" To my ears, I've never sounded more vulnerable.

Hesitation.

A longer pause.

Consideration.

"I'll cut you a deal; you grab us a plate of food, and I'll meet you on the Southern Beach to talk about her. Sounds good?"

Without waiting for an answer, he heads off towards his suite. I presume he's gone to clean up quickly and rid himself of the smoky smell. On the other hand, I re-enter the war zone and gather our food. Dad continues to glare at me as I pile our plates sky high with food. Without a second glance back, I turn and head to the beach, a thousand and one questions burning on the tip of my tongue.


End file.
